Sisters of Colford Hall 01 - The Invasion of Falgannon Isle (16 page)

Gritting his teeth, he raised back to draw her attention. Her eyes opened, all emotions there to read. Her pleasure. Her greed for more. Finally, threads of confusion shifted to doubt. She was afraid she didn’t please him in some manner. If only she knew.

He kissed her lightly to alleviate her fears. “Look into my eyes, B.A., ” he commanded, the words difficult to form through the corded muscles of his neck.

His hands palmed her wet hips, then in a quick jerk, he lifted her high, bracing her against the wall. B.A.‘s lips made a sweet 0 as he planted himself to the hilt.
Deep enough to touch her heart.
He blinked, unsure if he’d spoken the words aloud or not.

“Not too small?” he teased, flexing his hips to move within her.

“Arrogant man.”

“Damn right,” he replied, the smile predatory.

Hips hammering against hers, she scorched him with her silken heat. He lost all semblance of sanity, driving them to a height neither knew was possible. B.A.‘s fierce climax rippled along his flesh, pulling him into that swirling vortex with her.

It was a little death that shook him to his soul.

Chapter 14

Desmond absentmindedly blow-dried his hair, watching B.A. in the mirror’s reflection as she shimmied into her long skirt. He sighed. B.A. shimmied well.

“This isn’t going to be one of those affairs where the whole island—except Oonanne and Morag—run around showing their knees, is it?”

B.A. zipped her plaid skirt and pulled the leather belt through the loops. “I could ask one of the lads for a loaner…”

Dudley jumped up on the counter, walked over and butted Desmond’s arm for attention. He ruffled the cat’s thick fur. “What do you think, pal? Me in a skirt? Think I’ll pass.”

B.A.‘s eyes danced. Putting her hand on his stomach, she watched as the muscles contracted from a jolt of lust. She snaked her fingers up his chest. “You’d wear one for me. Wouldn’t you, Des?”

I’d jump through hoops for you, woman.
Desmond fought the pounding in his body—a losing effort. She set his blood to boiling and there was little he could do but stand like a fool and enjoy it. He grabbed her hips and yanked her against him.

“We can discuss me wearing one for you—in private—another time. Keep rubbing my chest and we won’t make it to the party.”

She rocked her hips with his and whispered against his mouth, “
Ceilidh
.”

He grinned. Strange, he knew he’d smiled many times in his life, but this grin seemed to reach every pore.
“Kay-lie
be damned, I’ve a better idea how we can spend this evening.”

He opened his mouth to kiss her with every ounce of the rapacious hunger she provoked in him. Only, she put her index finger to his lips. Undeterred, his tongue darted out and swirled around the digit. He sucked it into his mouth, drawing on it rhythmically to convey what possessed his mind.

She croaked, “Hold… those thoughts… for later. You’ll not talk me out of the
ceilidh
. I want to waltz with you, Desmond Mershan.”

With a groan of regret rumbling in his chest—and a
pop
as she pulled her finger from his mouth—she spun out of his arms and vanished into the bedroom.

Drinking in the image of her walking away, Desmond leaned back against the counter edge, afraid his legs might not hold him. Dudley head-butted him. “She wants to waltz with me, Dudmeister. Think we’ll make a striking pair?”

Kitty meowed an emphatic yes, nodding his head.

Desmond chuckled. “Well, who am I to doubt a poker-playing cat?”

*

It was nearly dark as Desmond pulled up with B.A. and Dudley before the town hall. He glanced at his watch and sighed, unused to night falling in the afternoon. A crowd filled the hall, and on the small stage two men played accordions, harmonizing with one of the Marys on piano. Two younger lads with flutes and Michael the Fiddle backed them.

Not one for accordion music, Desmond was surprised by the sound they created, which was more like muted bagpipes. The music was haunting, sending prickles dancing across his scalp.

B.A. led him through the gathering, causing Desmond to wonder if he’d ever held hands with a woman before. No instance came to mind. He glanced at their interlaced fingers, feeling that urgent need just to touch her, even in a small gesture. An addiction now.

He tugged her hand to slow her. “No real bagpipes?”

She laughed over her shoulder. “Och, pipes are for outdoors, instruments of war. Our ears wouldn’t stand them inside.”

Tables were arranged on either side of the door leading to the kitchen. Covered dishes were lined up on one, while the second to the right had bottles of Pepsi, 7-Up, Wee Heavy—Scottish ale—and several brands of scotch. On the opposite end was a large crystal bowl where Innis mixed punch.

“Evening, Desmond. B.A. and Kitty fetched you to our monthly get together, eh?” Innis grinned as his eyes fixed on the loose grip Desmond kept on B.A.‘s hand.“‘Tis a grand night.”

“She wants to waltz with me.” Desmond checked over the selection of drinks.

“A bonnie duo you’ll make on the dance floor.” Innis lifted a cup in salute. “Fix you anything to drink—the hair of the dog? Though you dunna look the worse for wear.”

“Fifty-two-year-old paint thinner agrees with me—though it might also be that green junk Morag brought.”

Innis shuddered. “I have to hold my nose, but it’ll fetch you ‘round with nary a hangover.”

“She’d be a millionaire many times over if she bottled the stuff and sold it.” Desmond suggested. “She should consider it.”

Innis shook his head. “Nah, wouldn’t interest her a’tall. Says she has to put something special in each batch for that person. Not sure I want to ken what
special
is. She’s happy with her herbals and creating perfumes for B.A.‘s commercial lines. So, what will you be having?”

“How about a dram of Stop-Breath?”

Innis looked briefly regretful. “Not with the philistines over from the other isles. We lock the private stock away.” He winked. “After you waltz with the lass, come back and I’ll sneak you some fine Edradour or Highland Park. Get you learning a proper palate for fine malt whisky.”

Desmond noticed the pile of sleeping bags in one corner. “Why the camping gear?”

“B.A. holds the
ceilidh
once a month and people from Dunbeag and Dunmohr come over. Our lass won’t let them drive their boats back in the dark. They have a fine time, then kip in their sleep-sacks here and breakfast in the morn. After, she holds the Counting, giving them their share of the online business.”

A tall, handsome man sauntered in, giving Desmond pause. “That’s—”

“Jock the Repair, MacGyver of the East. There’s naught he cannot repair, though B.A. insists he’s not good with duct tape.”

Desmond knew the old theory that there’s a double for every person somewhere, but this was amazing. “He’s a dead ringer for—”

Michael the Story reached in front of Desmond to snag a paper cup. “Oh aye, bloody git. There’s a long list of ladies hoping to come to the isle, waiting to meet the eejit. But after falling down in the duct tape department, our lass will put him at the end of the queue.”

B.A. tugged on his hand. “Come on, Des, time to waltz.”

Desmond followed B.A. through the crowd ringing the dance floor. Dudley trailed after them. An odd excitement hummed in his blood as people stopped him, shook his hand and introduced themselves. He’d thought he’d feel an interloper tonight; that feeling of never belonging was something he’d carried his whole life. Contrary to expectations, he was warmly welcomed.

Desmond had been many places in the world, worked, lived and socialized, yet he always remained apart, the lone wolf. In his world, people judged by how you dressed, what car you drove or where you lived. These kooky islanders cared nothing about his apparel, didn’t demand to know his heritage or bank balance. They just accepted him.

Once again, the back of his mind insisted he was still that lone wolf among sheep. They wouldn’t welcome him if they knew why he’d come to their isle.

As the band played “Mist Covered Mountains,” B.A. stepped into his arms. “I warn you, Mershan, I love to dance.”

Instead of sweeping around the dance floor movie-style, this waltz was slower, a focused partnering that kept them at the middle. As in the greenhouse, their movements were in tune with one another. As if they’d danced a hundred times before.

Desmond grew aware all eyes watched, smiles and nods of approval on everyone’s faces. Even so, a slight dizziness spiraled in him. This was a simple waltz, a man and a woman—and a cat—out on a dance floor. Yet somehow it was so much
more
.

He stared into B.A.‘s eyes, images assaulting his mind. The world spun, tilting on its axis. Out of the blue, B.A. wore a white gown and a chaplet of white roses in her hair, a vision of a bride that rocked him to the core. Shocked, he blinked his eyes.

Then another scene crowded his brain. He stood in the Great Hall of the castle. It wasn’t the ruins, but furnished and aglow from flames of the fireplace. Peculiarly, he saw himself as a spectator, yet in the same breath was a part of the man in the vision, witnessing a tableau so detailed it blotted out his surroundings.

This other him stood staring into the fire’s bluish flames, lost to contemplations. He wore chain mail, a red surcoat, and a red and black plaid across his chest diagonally, fastened by a large Pictish brooch. His head snapped up as B.A.—at least, she looked like B.A.—entered the room wearing a white gown in a medieval style. It fitted her body, flaring at the hips. A gold chain girdle circled her waist, nearly reaching the floor. The low-cut square bodice hugged her full breasts. Her long blond hair was unbound, a simple gold circlet adorning her forehead.

She was so beautiful he forgot to breathe.

“Des, are you all right?”

For a second, the medieval version of BarbaraAnne shimmered before him. The vision faded, revealing B.A. in her navy sweater and tartan skirt. He almost blurted out that he wanted her wedding gown designed in that medieval style, so strong were the images still haunting him.

He blinked, striving to dismiss it. Likely, it was that fifty-two-year-old paint thinner’s lingering effects, or that green goop from Morag. “I’m fine. Want to look in my eyes to be sure?”

“Actually, I do. You’re glassy-eyed. I feared you might pass out.”

The music ended. They stood staring at each other for a long minute. Desmond leaned forward and brushed his lips against hers, not caring they were the center of attention. When every male in the place burst into applause, Desmond stepped back and shook his head.

“Only on this dotty island!” he joked. “Do we take a bow?”

She linked her fingers with his and led him toward the tables. “You need feeding.”

At the F-word, Dudley’s ears perked up and he pranced like a trick pony ahead of them.

“Now you mention it, last thing I ate was Cheese Doodles just before Innis brought out the Stop-Breath.” Desmond took the plate she handed him, seizing on hunger as an explanation for the bizarre images that assailed him on the dance floor. Stepping so his thigh brushed the side of hers, he nuzzled her hair against her ear. “Some daft lassie dinna feed me all day.”

“Och, B.A., ‘tis ashamed you should be,” Cedric the Doc chimed behind Desmond. “Lass, dinna you ken the way to a man’s heart is through his turn?”

“She knows, Cedric.” Desmond stared at the mountain of food B.A. heaped on his plate—enough for a small army of Dudleys. Glancing down at the cat, who was doing a rumba on his hind legs, he added, “Come on, Dudley, we have our work cut out.”

The evening passed in a blur of delicious food, dancing, great music, whisky and fun company. Desmond couldn’t recall ever having a better time. B.A. was asked to dance often. It surprised Desmond, each time she checked with him before accepting, her eyes lingering on him as if she hated to leave his side even for a few minutes.

Doing his stint as a proper gentleman, he asked one of the Marys to dance. She blushed as she put her hand in his.

On the dance floor, he passed B.A. dancing with a pimply faced teenager. He winked at her. Wearing a witchy smile, she winked back. Dudley had a hard time dividing his time between his two people.

Mary-Annis exclaimed, “There’s Kitty! Haven’t seen him all week.”

“Sorry, he’s taken to following me around,” Desmond admitted.

“Och, no worries. We dunna see him that often. He generally trails after B.A., only coming to mooch at lunchtime,” she answered.

“I thought the cat was yours.”

“That’s B.A.‘s gub. She got him when he was a wee thing, but ended up asking us to take him. Dudley didn’t get on with B.A.‘s husband. I always said, if a man dinna get along with a kitty, get rid of the man. Moggies are good judges of character. After Deshaunt’s death she dinna feel right asking for him back. Think also, B.A. couldn’t stand having something to love at that point. A miserable lass she was, especially after Roarke Deshaunt pulled that stunt at the memorial service.”

“Stunt?”

“Ashamed he should be. He was grieving, but that dinna give him leave to attack our B.A., blaming her for Evian’s death. Right there at the memorial services, mind you.”

“He did that?” Desmond’s hackles went up, imagining B.A. distraught, barely holding herself together, and having some selfish bastard heap guilt upon her.

“He blamed her, said if she hadn’t insisted on living on Falgannon, his brother would be alive. The “Morn, B.A.” Club couldn’t boot him off the isle fast enough. Lucky for him, because the Fraser twins and the Michaels were ready to learn him some manners, Highland style. Our lass has seen too much sorrow. She needs someone to love her, to cherish her, to ease the load off her shoulders. This island’s a big responsibility and she carries it alone.”

Desmond heard the warning.

He used the times B.A. danced with others to learn about Falgannon. Over drams of Highland Park, Desmond discovered B.A.‘s online catalogue; selling their quilts, sweaters, kilts, leather goods, jewelry and the two perfume lines saw steady employment for all three isles. The seasonal harvesting and shipping of roses provided extra income for dozens of islanders.

Guilt ate at Desmond’s insides. He’d like to chalk it up as too much whisky, maybe even the start of an ulcer, but it was his conscience that plagued him. These people were so happy with their quiet lives, content in this pocket of the world that was near paradise. And his plans would destroy that. He’d bring in outsiders and they’d lose their sense of security. Their children rode scooters after dark, never fearing someone would hurt them. Likely, none of the residents of the three isles—same as B.A.—bothered to lock their doors. His development would see strangers coming, a type of people they didn’t know, shouldn’t trust.

Downing a dram of Highland Park, he savored its unusual taste, not of peat fires but something wilder, untamed, a balefire for pagan invocation. Alarmingly, another bizarre vision exploded into his mind. This time, it was of the snake in the Garden of Eden. Only it twined around the Falgannon business district sign, and the blasted serpent had his face!

The room spun as he heard B.A. calling from a great distance.